By Ashley Butler 
She gathered every fluffy dandelion like treasure, tiny fists full of wish-makers. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and blew. No hesitation. No “be realistic.” Just hope carried on a hundred little parachutes drifting across the grassy lot down the street.
And something ached in my chest.
When did I trade wishes for to-do lists? When did efficiency become the only measure of a day—emails sent, laundry folded, minutes shaved off bedtime—while the things that make a life felt like extras I’d get to later? I’ve become very good at getting things done. I’m not sure I’ve been as good at letting myself want good things.
When I was little, I made wishes on everything: birthday candles, shooting stars, dandelions gone to seed. I didn’t know if anything would come true. That wasn’t the point. The point was naming out loud what I hoped for and believing, for a breath, that goodness could find me.
My daughter hasn’t learned the bargain yet. She believes in the kind of magic that doesn’t check the clock. She believes you can close your eyes, blow with your whole heart, and ask for something good. Watching her reminded me that wishing isn’t control. It’s permission. It’s turning your face toward hope even when you can’t guarantee the outcome.
So I made a few, too.
I wished for patience when bedtime unravels into one more drink of water and one more question about the moon. I wished for gentleness with myself when the day is messy and loud and nothing looks like the picture in my head. I wished for courage to keep small promises to myself: drink the water, take the walk, text the friend, put the phone down at night. I wished for a home where wonder isn’t something we outgrow.
None of these wishes will scrub the pots or shorten the car line. Hope doesn’t erase the work. But hope colors the work differently. It gives the ordinary day a reason. When I let myself wish, I start to notice small kindnesses I’d otherwise sprint past: the neighbor who waves, the teacher who sees my kid, the snort-laugh at the dinner table that catches me off guard right when I need it most.
I can’t make the world easy or safe or fair for my children. I can’t make every wish come true. But I can build a house where hope lives. I can show them how to name what they want and keep showing up, even when it takes a long time. I can celebrate little wins and keep a soft place on the couch for big feelings. I can look at a lot full of weeds and help them see flowers.
Later that afternoon, she handed me a dandelion. “You go first, Mommy.” I closed my eyes and made a wish too big to say out loud. Then I blew, and we watched the seeds lift and dance away. She pressed the empty stem into my palm like a trophy, curled her fingers into mine, and we followed the drifting pieces past our sneakers. For a moment, the lot looked like a tiny galaxy, soft floating lights headed who knows where.
I don’t know where our wishes will land. I only know that naming them together made the day feel wider, like a window had opened and let more air in.
Maybe none of us ever stops needing wishes. Maybe the trick is to let our kids remind us.
Because in a world that rewards speed, hope asks us to pause. In a world that worships certainty, hope invites us to risk. In a world that keeps score, hope tells the truth about what matters: love, presence, and a table with room for one more story.
May she always believe in wishes. And may I believe with her. Not because life is easy, but because hope helps us keep going when it isn’t.
That’s not naive. That’s brave.
by Kelli Bachara 
by Tynea Lewis 
by Tiffany Reiger 
